DAYDREAMING

I first met Vovô Balian in Grumari, on an afternoon that looked like a painting. He glided across the waves with a kind of lightness you don’t learn. He wore boardshorts, a striped shirt, and long hair soaked in saltwater, swaying as if it too danced with the sea. Back then, I wasn’t even working in film just taking photos for the love of it, with no idea where it might lead. But something about that moment stayed with me. Vovô Balian wasn’t just a surfer. He was a presence. A silence full of meaning. The way he moved through the world showed that surfing, for him, was more than a sport, it was a way of being alive.

I started calling him Vô, Grandpa, almost without realizing it. Not because he’s old, because he isn’t, but because he carries a rare kind of wisdom, the kind you find in those who live attentively. In those who tell stories that make you stop and listen. Every time I talk to him, I leave changed. Calmer. More curious. Wiser. Some people speak simply, but leave you feeling smarter just by being around them. That’s Vô. Listening to him is like opening a book you don’t want to put down. And so he became my Vô, even with no blood ties between us.

Years later, in Portugal, fate, or maybe some kind of destiny, brought us together again. I was invited to direct a project, and the subject turned out to be him. That’s when I first stepped into the daydreaming room, a space that would become the heart of the film. It was where he welcomed friends, where time would spill into long conversations about the ocean, art, and life. But there was something curious: that room wasn’t entirely his. He shared the house with João Maria, and most of the objects in the room belonged to João. Vô kept only the essentials: a surfboard, a Caetano Veloso record, and a few books. From the very beginning, it was clear that this story couldn’t be told by separating one from the other. Vô, with the calm of someone who has seen much, and João Maria, more reserved, but with eyes that see everything and a wit as sharp as a blade. They balance each other in silence and in words.

That connection gave birth to Daydreaming. A film that walks the line between structure and spontaneity, between the planned and the purely lived. Yes, there is a script, but I left room for life to enter. That’s why the film begins and ends with daydreams, scenes without direction or performance, just the two of them, being who they are, reflecting on life. Moments where time breathes. Small details that slowly reveal who they are, and, somehow, who we are too.

Daydreaming is not about speed. It’s not about answers. It’s about presence. We live in a time where everything has to be said fast, explained instantly, digested in seconds. But what happens when we just listen? When we simply observe, without rushing to conclusions? This film is an invitation to slow down, to be fully present. It’s 26 minutes that pass lightly, but leave footprints. In the end, more than watching, I hope the audience feels they truly met Vô and João Maria. That they might even become invisible friends, those rare souls who remind us that listening is, sometimes, the deepest form of love.

Daydreaming was made to be seen on the big screen. To echo in cinemas around the world, not dissolve in five seconds of a phone algorithm. It’s a film about time, not the kind that rushes, but the kind that’s lived. A gentle call to be present, to do what brings you joy, to exist with more intention. A breath of air for those who still believe in the power of looking, of silence, and of connection. For those who understand that sometimes, you don’t need to say much to feel everything.